


Steve Builds A House

by wordsphoenix



Series: Steve and Bucky have a house now [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky comes in for the sequel and all subsequent stories don't worry, M/M, Mental Illness, Mostly a Steve-centric fic, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Recovery, STEVE IS BUILDING A HOUSE, Steve's bi and Buck's gay, and they were together in the '30s, it's in New York, that's it the whole thing is a recovery fic about Steve building himself a house, warning Steve does have a couple bad days but there are no flashbacks or anything like that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 22:25:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14942477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsphoenix/pseuds/wordsphoenix
Summary: Steve Rogers wants to build a house. And hopefully do some healing along the way.This is a post-Winter Soldier story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Like I said in the comments, I'm done writing, so this will get posted on time, but I haven't edited, so two chapters a weekend until it's all up. There will absolutely be a sequel called 'Bucky Fixes Steve's House' and maybe more after that, I don't know, I'm rolling with it.
> 
> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy. Feel free to call me out if my vague descriptions of Steve doing house stuff aren't accurate. I have not actually built a real life house myself before.

            “You got a permit for that?”

            Steve kept chopping. “Yes, sir.”

            “You doing that by yourself?”

            Steve wiped his brow and looked up. There was a man standing on the other side of the fence, squinting in the sun. He had a hat, actually, but Steve was facing away from the light. Steve could feel the heat baking through his shirt as he worked. “Doing what?”  
            “Building a house.”

            Steve looked down at the pile of wood. “I wasn’t planning on using this.”

            The man laughed. “’Course not. But I noticed your supplies.” The man nodded towards Steve’s truck, the back of which held an assortment of power tools. That alone wasn’t telling, but they’d already dug out the hole for the basement behind him.

            “Yeah. I needed something to do. Wanted to… to make something of my own. With my own hands.”

            The man nodded. “You got help? For the framing, I mean? And the rest. Electric. Plumbing. Things like that.”

            Steve shrugged. “I was waiting to call ‘til I got closer. But yes. I know a few people who’d be willing to help. And I have someone for all the basement stuff. Pipe consult tomorrow.”

            “That’s good. Can’t build a house by yourself. Though you look stubborn enough to try.”

            Steve laughed, not knowing how to respond.

            The man came closer, held out a hand. “Name’s Tom. I work down the street.”

            Steve took the hand. “I’m Steve. Nice to meet you.”

            Tom stood there for another second. “Nice to meet you, Steve. I’m at T&R Construction, down the street. Look us up if you need anything.”

            “Thank you.”

            “I’ll be seeing you.” Tom nodded and kept walking.

            He had clearly known. Nobody stared head-on at Steve like that and didn’t know. But he’d treated him like a person. Like… not Captain America.

            Steve decided he’d go down to T&R the next morning.

            When he was finished making bonfire wood, he stacked it neatly in the bed of his truck. The truck was new- not new, but new to him- because he knew he’d need a car if he was going to do this and it made sense to buy one that could handle the job.

            Steve’s last task for the day was moving the tools into the shed. It was the only thing on the property aside from weeds, gravel, a patch of grass, and the fallen tree he’d just finished turning into firewood. Steve had initially been worried the shed wouldn’t make it; a look inside proved that it was still sturdy, though. A hundred years old and refusing to give. Kind of like him. So he kept it, reinforced it a bit, and made it his base of operations. Technically he lived at Stark Tower- he slept there, and spent a few minutes a day convincing Tony that, yes, he really did prefer to do everything by hand and by himself- but Steve was pretty sure he’d be spending most of his waking hours in or near the shed from then on out.

            The idea had come on a morning run through New York, a few weeks after he’d moved. It had made no sense for the Avengers to remain scattered. They were the backbone of what was left of SHIELD. Easier to work that way. So he’d moved. Steve liked New York better anyway. He already had a place waiting in the Tower. But it wasn’t his. He wanted a place that was his.

            So he got the crazy idea to build a house.

            Not crazy. Good. It was a good idea. He had too much time on his hands and he hadn’t made something in forever. Not more than a few sketches.

Once, a long time ago, when he thought he wouldn’t make it out of Europe alive, Steve thought that he would like to take a project like that on. His own house. Starting from scratch would have seemed ridiculous, then; but now it was the future. They didn’t make things like they used to anymore, and the idea of buying a building already half-ruined by renovations made Steve’s skin crawl.

            So he’d start from the beginning, from nothing.

            It was the extreme version of the dream he’d had all those years ago, to build a life for himself. To find… something. Peace, maybe. Contentment. He’d know when he found it. Which he intended to do. If he made it out.

            Which he had. So he ran and ran and ran until he found an abandoned lot. It was tucked between a block of apartments and a handful of industrial buildings, easy walking distance to food but not in a busy area. He hadn’t imagined for a second he’d find something remotely like it. Finding spare land in New York had been impossible from the start. But he’d had to try.

            Took a lot of trying, too. Which explained why the lot was untouched. It took a hell of a lot of work for Steve to find the owner and convince him to sell. Steve didn’t know what the property had initially been used for, just that the owner’s family had been sitting on it forever. They hadn’t wanted to sell to a big developer. And nobody wanting a nice house in New York scouted deserted back-roads looking for one. Nobody except Steve.

            So Steve got lucky. The guy liked him. Never mind he was Captain America, although that may have had something to do with it. The guy sold him the land because Steve wasn’t going to build an artisan coffee shop on it. He’d sounded sincere enough for Steve not to pass up the miracle that was this opportunity.

            After that it was just permits. Nobody wanted to deny permits to Captain America.

            Now all he had to do was build a house.

            He’d never wanted anything more.

*

            Steve showed up to Sam’s welcome bonfire right on time.

            It wasn’t much of a bonfire, since it was being held on one of the Tower’s patios. Still, as Tony pointed out, “At least we’ve got authentic firewood. None of that corporate packaged stuff.”

            Steve shrugged. “What else was I going to do with a dead tree?”

            “I don’t know, carve something? You’re good at art, right?”

            Steve sighed. “I was never much of a sculptor. Though I could probably get millions for a tree chopped down by the one and only Captain America.”

            Tony grinned. “Never gets old, man. That never gets old. Although I’m sure it’s old for you. I’m famous and it’s not exactly a cakewalk but at least I’ve had my whole life to get used to it. You, on the other hand…” Tony shuddered. “I’d hate to love anonymity as much as you do and end up famous anyway.”

            “Lucky your personality matches your celebrity,” Nat said, throwing back a handful of M&Ms. They were waiting for Sam to cook the food, but Tony tended to keep candy out at all times.

            Steve didn’t mind it. He helped himself to a few jelly beans. Then he made a face. “You got the Harry Potter ones, didn’t you?”  
            “Gets you every time.”

            Steve sighed and made a mental note to stay away from the jelly beans. Damn Tony and his pranks. He washed his mouth out with a few of Nat’s M&Ms. She’d have the bowl in her lap by the end of the night.

            A few minutes later Clint showed up climbing over the side of the building, and Pepper and Bruce came in through the glass doors already talking about something.

            “Thor coming out?” Steve asked, chancing a glance at the sky.

            Tony shrugged. “I told him Sam was finally moving in, but I don’t know if he’s in the galaxy at the moment. Don’t know if he’d be into it.”

            At that moment, Thor came striding through the patio doors, picking a spot right behind Tony, who jumped about a foot when Thor asked, “Whatever would give you that idea, Stark? We’re welcoming a new Avenger into the fold. Of course I came.” This last line was delivered with the sincerity Steve had come to expect from Thor.

            Steve liked him. “You did remember to invite Sam, right?”

            Tony looked a little offended. “ _Yes_. He thinks he’s coming up for regular dinner. Like, pizza or something.”

            “Little does he know,” Clint said. He was wearing a hot pink ‘World’s Sexiest Gril’ apron. Steve didn’t quite get the joke, though he appreciated the color. “Ready to fire up the grill?”

            “Ready? I was born ready.” Tony walked over to the grill- which, Steve noticed, was more of a full outdoor kitchen than a grill- and started getting food out of the minibar fridge for Clint. Steve would have been worried about the quantity, given the company, but he knew for a fact the fridge inside was packed.

            Sam appeared right on time. He was more than happy to find a full welcome party waiting for him. “You guys did all this for me? I’m honored.”

            “You’re an Avenger now, Sam Wilson,” Thor said, clapping a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “The honor is ours.”

            The party went well. Steve ate half a cow and tried to mingle. Once Sam got over all of them being in the same room, he settled into his usual relaxed mood. He really seemed happy to be there. Steve was glad.

            When Sam finally got away from a heated discussion between Bruce and Tony that was getting more technical by the minute, he came over to Steve. “Thanks.”

            Steve laughed. “I didn’t put it together. It was all Tony’s idea. Something about boosting group morale and getting everybody in the same building, preferably one not controlled by the U.S. government.”

            “I can’t say I disagree. So that’s your firewood, huh? Where’d you find a tree in New York?”

            “It was on my lot. Fell years ago. Wasn’t doing anyone much good there.”

            Sam had that half-disbelieving look he gave Steve every time Steve did something Sam expected from him but no one else. “Your lot? So you’re really doing it? This isn’t just an elaborate prank intended to get back at Tony for years of fucking with you?”

            “Yep. I’m really doing it. I found some land and used my Cap smile to get everything else I needed. I was hoping you’d help, actually. I hold the beams, you nail them together, or something like that.”

            Sam nodded. “Anytime. Between my new counseling job and whatever Tony will have me doing.”

            Tony waved a hand in their direction. “Don’t worry about it, Wilson. You’re part of the family. You help save the world, I give you fifteen showerheads.”

            “How did he hear me?” Sam asked.

            Steve shook his head. “I have super soldier hearing and I don’t think _I_ would’ve heard you from that distance.”

            Nat ambled over and shot them a grin. “Jarvis is always listening.”


	2. Chapter 2

            Steve didn’t know what it was about concrete-pouring day, but that was the day it really sank in: he was building a house. Steve was building a house in New York.

            He never thought this would happen. Yes, he’d dreamed about it, but that was just it- those were dreams. He didn’t think he’d ever make it to this point.

            Which made it all the more important he was doing it.

He’d gotten the plans drawn out before he really knew what they were.

            At first it had just been drawing. Familiar shapes in unfamiliar patterns. Places he could go in his head because they’d never existed in the first place so it damn well didn’t matter they didn’t exist here or now.

            After the run and the phone calls and two nights of sleeping on it and feeling a little dizzy about it he realized exactly how he was going to find a house plan.

            He already had one. Or, not a real plan, but a set of drawings he liked more than the others. A place he’d drawn a few more times and thought he’d like to stay for a while, really see, instead of retreat to in a few hours of drawing. A place Steve would maybe rather be than fighting, because everywhere he went in New York Steve had to forget, he always had to forget, but when he was fighting that was everything so it didn’t matter. Nothing hurt except physical blows. He was completely in it.

            It was like that with the drawings. He’d go away for a few hours into some dream version of New York that was closer to what he remembered but still different, always different. And there were no people there. The quiet was nice, but it hurt, too. So Steve could only stay there for a few hours. That’s why he didn’t keep the drawings out; that’s why it took him days to get them out after he decided to build a house.

            But this house was different. This house, or collection of houses, or places, or whatever it was, didn’t hurt as much as the others. Every time he turned a corner in his head he wasn’t thinking ‘Mom would kick me for that’ or ‘Bucky would have liked it.’ Mostly Steve just felt calm, like things were where they were supposed to be even though the people he loved weren’t in them. Like it was his place. Like he could be calm here, without hurting so much, because it was his and he could damn well do what he liked there.

            It was lonely, sure. And he wasn’t going to design a house he couldn’t have invited his family to even if they were dead. But he had a new family now. Not new- _more_. Different. And maybe they could come to this place, too. And maybe Steve wouldn’t ache so much when they smiled there, because he’d made it for them a little, too, and for this time. So it fit better.

            Tony recommended an architect. Tony was always recommending things, but Steve didn’t often listen. His taste in movies was crap and Steve had already decided to do as much as he could himself.

            He couldn’t draft a house plan with the precision he needed, though, not without years of school he didn’t have, so Steve called the number and set up a meeting and the woman was very friendly and very willing to adapt his ideas without grumbling about how impractical or old-fashioned they were.

            Not that Steve had worked with enough people to get much of that. Still. When he suggested anything that wasn’t triple fireproofed Nat had bugged her eyes out at him. And when the concrete guys asked about the style of the house and he’d said “something thirties, I think,” they had been very confused. Apparently the suburbs were invented in the fifties and every house they’d made for the past ten years was a riff off of those now.

            Steve didn’t mind it so much. That he was an old soul, or whatever people called it. He’d had enough time in the twentieth century to get used to it by then.

            And his SHIELD mandated therapist seemed to revel in the pride Steve took in being nearly a hundred years old, so. That was something.

            Sam liked it, too. “You’re something else, Rogers. Most people view old-fashioned stuff, traditional stuff, as a bad thing, but you- you bask in it. Like a lizard in the sun.”

            Steve shrugged. “I’m pretty sure ‘traditional’ is a swear word because people use it wrong. Didn’t used to mean- well, I mean, yeah, it always meant conservative, but-” He made a split-second decision. “You know, I’m bi?”

            And that’s how he came out to Sam. Who said, “Oh. I’m glad you trust me enough to share that with me,” which Steve would not have expected from anyone in a million years but Sam was great and he’d take it.

            Steve sighed. He was really glad he’d done that. Especially since they were mostly done with lunch and he only had to feel the after-coming-out nerves instead of the big lead-up ones, too. “I think that’s the best answer I’ve heard.”

            Sam raised his eyebrows. But he was too polite to ask how many times Steve’d come out. Because Sam was a good person.

            Steve laughed. “It’s not like I’ve heard many answers. I just- I’m in my twenties, technically, so it didn’t take that long to get used to the internet, and- I don’t know. It annoys me that people think of me as this pillar of American family values when I’m just- not. And I didn’t expect you to bolt outa here or anything, I just- I’m glad, too. That we’re friends.” Clearly Steve didn’t have much experience with this discussion.

            “Anyway,” Sam said, “now we’ve got that cleared up-”

            “Hey!” Steve leaned across the table to shove Sam’s shoulder. “That was a heartfelt response. Now you’re teasing me?”

            “No. Yes. Maybe. I’m just saying, if you want to change the subject, I’m not gonna-”

            “Let’s not change the subject,” Steve interrupted. “How’d that date last week go?”

            “Oh, God,” Sam said, putting his head in his hands. “I still haven’t told you about that.”

*

            Nat already knew, like she already knew almost everything, and when Steve told her about his talk with Sam, she cracked up. “Nice! Not even I could get that date story out of him. Way to play things in your favor, Steve.”

            “I learned from the best.”

            “Stop.” Nat fluttered her eyelashes a little and turned back to the gym. She and Steve were taking a break from their weekly sparring practice to watch Clint and Sam face off. Sam was winning, since they refused to count the rafters above the ring as part of the sparring area. “How’s the basement coming along?”

            “It’s good. I’m going to need help soon.” To everyone’s surprise but Steve’s, Nat had been the first one to volunteer.

            “I can come over sometime this week. I know that isn’t very exact, but-”

            “No, it’s fine,” Steve said. He still needed to work out some things with the architect about the interior rooms, and it wasn’t supposed to rain, so hopefully his concrete pit wouldn’t flood. “I’ve got time.”

            “Have you been doing okay?”

            “’Course I have. Haven’t missed a therapy appointment yet, have I?” Steve knew for a fact she’d be checking; he may have led the charge in New York, but for all intents and purposes, Nat was in charge of the Avengers. Which, for her, meant keeping tabs on them.

            Nat shook her head. “You know those things are confidential. They’re only supposed to warn someone if you’re a danger to yourself or others.”

            “Confidential isn’t what it used to be,” Steve said.

            Nat turned to look at him. “You know, you can always find someone else. Shouldn’t be that hard to get Fury to sign off on it.”

            “I don’t like that he has to sign off at all.”

            Nat put a hand on his knee. “None of us likes that. But I can’t run this whole thing by myself, and he’s done a pretty decent job so far.”

            Steve decided not to point out how long it’d taken them to realize SHIELD and Hydra were basically the same thing. He was still pretty angry about it, and, punching bags close by or not, Steve didn’t think it’d be a good idea to lose his cool in the tower. “Any news on our mutual friend?”

            “Sorry, but no.” Once Nat had gotten back from her own personal errands and taken over as unofficial head of the Avengers, she’d offered to help Steve on the intel side of things.

            If Steve had his way, he’d be stopping at every Hydra base from New York to Singapore looking for the Winter Soldier. But apparently ‘rogue missions looked bad’ and ‘you’re not mentally stable enough to go on international search-and-destroy missions alone’ and ‘the newest recruit does not count as adequate backup’ (Steve was pretty offended on Sam’s behalf at that one). And Fury’s other points- like the one about not endangering his teammates or his fellow Americans from lack of preparedness, or the one about his mental state getting worse if he kept hitting dead ends- those were reasonable. Even though he hated to admit it.

            Steve had started thinking of Buck as the Soldier to avoid losing his damn mind completely. Because not even Stark would lend him the equipment he needed, and, alright, Steve was bad. Mentally unstable, or whatever Fury’d called it.

            Steve was having a hard time conceptualizing mental illness. Well, when it came to himself. When it came to anyone else he may as well have been born twenty years ago. To someone who didn’t know Steve, it’d sound ridiculous. But to someone who did- like Nat or Sam or even maybe his SHIELD therapist a little- it made perfect sense. Because Steve was all about helping other people, but when it came to himself? No way. He was a super soldier. He’d been through hell and back as a kid getting sick every other week, and now he had a perfect body with perfect lungs and even a brain that worked a little better. There wasn’t anything physically wrong with him.

            And he hadn’t experienced a fraction of the torture Bucky had.

            But apparently brain chemicals could still be wrong even if everything about Steve’s muscles and bones and normal bodily functions were perfect. Even if he hadn’t been locked up in a cryo tube for ten years at a time and forced to murder people when he came out.

            So.

            Steve was building a house.

            Because he wasn’t about to sit around doing nothing and he didn’t feel qualified to lead the Avengers anymore and he’d be damned if there wasn’t a place for Bucky to come home to when Steve finally found him.


	3. Chapter 3

            Nat wanted to help frame out the house because she was dexterous and tiny and could thus crawl all over the place with the nail gun while Steve held things in place. He had no objections to this, so long as she followed the plan.

            Nat followed the plan.

            Concrete pouring day might have been important, but framing day was more important. Because it finally started to look like a house.

            Steve’s house. Bucky’s house, if he didn’t- if he could-

            But that was a well of pain, and Steve didn’t like falling down it.

            “What are you thinking about?” Nat asked.

            Steve snorted. “Buck.” He was holding a stud and she was perched up high, scooting along the cross-beam to nail them in at the top.

            “Don’t you mean the Soldier?” Nat secured the board and shifted a foot to the right.

            Steve’s right; her left. “No. I was thinking about Buck.”

            “Isn’t that bad? I mean, didn’t you want to avoid-”

            “Hurting myself?” Steve asked ruefully from a few feet away. He had to get another board.

            He turned to see Nat shrug. “No, I just thought you thought it was important to try and build something that wasn’t in the past.”

            Steve hadn’t thought about it in exactly those terms, but he supposed he should have. “Maybe. But I’ll always be in the past. You know that. And I’m not going to throw away the good just because-”

            “Right.” She cut him off when he got defensive. Nat didn’t like it when he got defensive; she wanted Steve to feel safe around her. “Do you want to talk about him?”

            Steve tipped his head back to stare at her. “Wouldn’t that be counterproductive?”

            Nat shook her head. “Pain needs to be processed, too.” He heard the end of that sentence- not just grief. Pain needed time. And for Steve to talk about it.

            Which he didn’t want to. But he knew she was right. Steve sighed. “I know.”

            “I don’t have to say anything. And you know I’m a vault.”

            “I know.” Steve inhaled.

            And then he started talking about Buck.

            At first it was nothing. Or little things, only, because nothing with Buck was nothing. But little things. Like the shit they used to do when they were kids. The trouble he’d get them into and Bucky’d get them out of.

            If she was surprised when he got to the part where they were lovesick teenagers who couldn’t stand not to be in touching distance when they were in the same room as each other, she didn’t show it.

            “You woulda hated us like that. But I think we needed to go through it? Because every time we did touch it was this reminder- that we had each other. That it worked. That neither of us had run screaming after the first time one of us grabbed the other’s hand and kissed it, or- well, I’m not gonna-”

            “You can if you want to, Steve. I won’t say anything.”  
            “You just did,” he countered, smiling. “But okay. First time he slept in my bed after that- he was supposed to be on the floor, maybe, I don’t know when we got too old to really fit but it’s not like it stopped us- he just said it. No real kiss or anything. I was fourteen, Nat. People say there’s no way you know when you’re fourteen. But I did. I knew I loved him and I’d never stop loving him-” Steve broke off with a sob.

            Nat’s hand came down on top of his head, gentle. “Hey. You want to take a break?”

            Steve sniffled and readjusted his piece of wall. “No. So little daylight left and this close to being done? If I stopped now, Buck’d kill me.”

            Nat ran her fingers through his hair, smoothing it down, and got back to helping him make walls.

            By the time the sun went down they were staring at the bones of a house.

            Nat had a small smile on her face, the kind you could tell was real from a mile off. “You’re something else, Rogers, you know that?”

            “Yeah.” Steve looked at his house for a second. “I’m really glad I’m doing this, though.”

            Nat laughed. “You don’t even have all the rooms framed yet.” Her voice softened. “But I see what you mean. It’s nice to create instead of destroy.”

            Steve tore his eyes away from his house. “I owe you dinner, don’t I?”

            “Want to go back and shower first, or is this more of a grimy event? Eat something greasy and then shower and pass out sort of thing?”

            Steve shrugged. “Whatever you want. There are a couple of good places around the corner.”

            “Lead the way, Captain.”

            Steve did.

*

            Steve was actually calling it ‘depression’ by exterior wall day.

            They had to cover the roof early, to keep the weather out. New York in summer didn’t get that many inches of rain, but it was still helpful not to have the place half-flooded before he got all the plumbing connected.

            He found it strange that a word that meant something totally different when he was a kid, a young adolescent, an adult, even- _Depression_ , proper noun, the thing that drained families’ livelihoods and had people pouring into the city even though work was just as hard to find in New York as it probably was in Chicago-that the word meant this now. This… whatever he was feeling. Shell shock. With his father it’d been shell shock. That was what it was called in the Great War, anyway. Which had stopped being ‘the Great War’ and started being ‘World War I’ not long after he’d joined the fight against the Nazis. Because there were two of them now.

            Thankfully still just two of them. And PTSD. His therapist mentioned PTSD and cited Steve’s depression as a side-effect. Or. Well. The depression had other causes. PTSD made it worse. That’s what shell shock was called now- PTSD. Steve hadn’t been around long enough to know what they called it after his war. Didn’t seem to matter.

            He was here now. Depressed in the twentieth century. And building a house, which shouldn’t have made him as sad as it did but Steve couldn’t help it. And. He knew being ‘a man out of time’ was also part of the depression, but he just. Didn’t like the idea of having this huge thing to deal with when he had no one around. Or not no one. Just- no one who knew him better than he knew himself. No Ma. No Bucky.

            Medical problems had been hard. But he’d had people. And this wasn’t a medical problem by Steve’s standards, no matter how much Tony insisted it was. To Steve it was just… war. Pain. Loss. Overwhelming loss. And he didn’t want to take this thing that shouldn’t belong to him, mental illness, when everything else about him was _fine_ and always would be. Probably be age that’d finally get him, Erskine said. Not like that exactly. But Steve had known what he meant.

            And he didn’t want to take depression and let it feel like an illness when physically he was fine (only maybe a little tired, a few headaches, and the constant pain in his chest but he knew asthma and this wasn’t that). And he didn’t have those same people. Steve had the Avengers, now, yeah, he had Sam, and Nat, and Clint and Tony and Thor and Pepper and Bruce and anybody else who was around on any given day. But he didn’t want to give this to them. Not when they had just as much as he did clogging up their heads. Not when they’d only had a couple years to really know him, aliens be damned.

            So. Steve was alone a little more than Nat or Sam would have liked. But he wasn’t alone alone, reclusive or isolated or anything like that. He was just depressed. And figuring out what that meant. And trying not to feel stupid about it.

            He talked to Buck a lot, mostly when he was standing around his shell of a house and no one was around to hear. But Steve was well-acquainted with grieving and he understood what talking to Buck meant and Steve wasn’t grieving he was just hurting, damnit. So he didn’t tell his therapist about that. Hard to believe if the traumatized Avengers hadn’t got it, a shrink wouldn’t, either.

            By exterior wall day Steve was telling Bucky it was depression, too.

            “It’s stupid, Buck. I feel so stupid. Or not stupid, just- wrong. Like I shouldn’t be doing this. Like it doesn’t belong to me, any more than anything else in this century does. But it’s mine now. I have to own it, right? Like the serum. This body’s mine now, and I owned the health like I owned the sickness, so… guess I have to own the sickness again, huh?”

            Buck probably would have said something about kicking depression’s ass. Steve didn’t like to think too hard about Buck’s responses because he was afraid he’d start hallucinating again.

            It had happened for three months after the ice and he didn’t think he wanted to go through that again.

            “I told Nat about us. She already knew about the depression because I’m pretty sure she reads my files. I mean, she won’t admit to reading them, but I told her she could, so that pretty much guarantees she did it. Also she’s in charge of us now so it’s her job to do that. Kind of reminds me when we started the Howlies and you kept giving me leadership tips because I’d seen real soldiers for about twelve minutes in my life and I wasn’t exactly prepared to help them, even if I could put a reckless plan together and pull it off…” Steve was crying again. He didn’t want to be crying.

            He wiped his eyes. “Okay, Buck. I gotta go. I hope you’re alright, wherever you are. I hope you’re- I hope you’re you.” And God, that was selfish, Steve was so selfish, and he didn’t think Bucky would be the same or expect him to be because Steve was anything but the same but he just- he just hoped Buck was him again.

            Then he touched the wood next to the space where the front door would be and said, “Love you,” because ever since the one time Buck’d gotten sick enough to scare Steve he’d never ever left him without saying it.

            Steve thought the house might like to hear it, too.


	4. Chapter 4

            “I’m not hosting Thanksgiving.”

            Tony pointed a fork at him. “Yes, you are.”

            Steve sighed. “Half the Avengers only celebrate to see their families and last I checked the other half spend the day getting wasted and ranting about the sorry state of America.”

            “I thought that was your MO?” Pepper asked from across the table.

            Steve laughed. “Right. Yeah. The America thing maybe, but I’ve had a taste of the stuff it takes to get me wasted and I doubt I’ll be doing that again anytime soon.”  
            “Thanksgiving isn’t soon,” Tony argued. “It’s months away. Half a year, basically.” When Pepper cleared her throat, he said, “Okay, a quarter of a year, but that’s still plenty of time for you to change your mind.”  
            “About Thanksgiving or getting drunk?” Steve asked.

            Tony shrugged. “Both.”

            Steve managed not to sigh again. When he sighed more than twice an hour around Tony he got called ‘mopey’ or ‘grim’ or something, and Steve didn’t feel like arguing about it just then. “I’ll consider Thanksgiving if we can get everyone to come. Maybe. And if the house is painted.”

            Pepper smirked. “You and I both know it won’t take you that long to finish the house.”

            “Fair,” Steve said. He didn’t add anything about Bucky because that was another thing that dragged the conversation down and fuck what his therapist said he was not darkening Tony’s and Pepper’s moods by bursting into tears because the only reason he wanted the house besides wanting something that didn’t feel out of the future was so maybe, if he wanted, Bucky could live there with him. Because it was Steve’s house. Mostly.

            As much as anything could be his without him automatically factoring Bucky into it. Which he was starting to do very often.

            If he wasn’t so glad his best friend was alive, Steve would- no. Don’t you dare, he warned himself. Guilt spirals were a surefire way to start crying at the dinner table.

            “Are you sure you don’t still want your floor here?” Tony asked. “Plenty of people have more than one place to live. My dad had like four, and that’s not counting all the places that were his in title but he let other people live in because they were there to finish projects on his behalf or- you know what I mean. You’re Captain America. You can have more than one house.”  
            Steve crossed his arms. “I have one house. And a guest room, at your house, because that’s practical. But I don’t want a floor. Seriously.”

            Tony sighed. “Fine. I’ll star spangle one of the beds on the communal floor. Although that’s barely better than a hotel-”

            “Tony!” Pepper said. “This place may be half office building, but it is most certainly still our home. And Steve is welcome here.”

            “Thanks, Pepper,” Steve said tiredly. Tony meant well, he just- overdid it. “I think I’m going to turn in, actually.” He was staying on his floor until the house got done enough to sleep in, after which Steve hoped Tony would gut the place and turn it into something else. Or offer it up to another Avenger. Or something else useful.

            Pepper smiled. “Thank you for having dinner with us.”

            Tony waved a hand. “Yeah, what she said. But I’m planning on turning this into a proper date with dessert and everything, so you’ll excuse me if I don’t walk you out-”

            “No problem.” Steve stood. If Pepper wasn’t so nice about it, he would have felt bad taking an hour a week from them; she hardly had free time to spare.

            Steve’s floor was only a few away. He took the elevator because he’d meant what he said about being tired, and also because something about not having to push himself all the time. That was very important to his depression specifically, though he wasn’t fully onboard with the philosophy yet.

            His nighttime routine was simple. Get home from whatever he was doing, usually eating dinner with another Avenger, shower if he hadn’t already, sketch faraway places until his eyes crossed, crash. Now that Steve was running on normal energy instead of adrenaline, and now that his energy levels were at an all-time low- not even on bad asthma days had he felt like this- Steve needed to sleep regularly. Which meant he had to find a way to fall asleep or he wouldn’t be able to work on his house the next day, which was worse than the fact that his current sluggishness dropped his progress almost to that of a normal person. Thus the necessity of sleep.

            Insomnia hadn’t been an issue for Steve until the war; even then, he’d had- ways to calm down. That he didn’t have now. And he couldn’t draw people, or real places, but he could still draw the imaginary ones. And it was lucky his energy was low, because it meant he could make his eyes tired drawing for an hour instead of having to go for three before feeling the need to blink.

            Sleeping too much was also a problem, but Steve was stubborn. And he had to get his house done. So he was going to wake up at the same time every day, depression be damned.

            Except the days when no one was expected at the house to help with anything and it was doing fine as is and Steve could only make it to the hallway before he felt every last ounce of motivation drain from him.

            The day after dinner with Tony and Pepper was a day like that.

            Steve hadn’t been interested enough to get into more than the surface-level brain chemistry, or the general umbrella terms, so he didn’t have a way to explain bad days as anything other than bad days, but he decided that was okay. Because he could recognize and accept that he had depression without letting it be him. He’d done it before, right? Heart murmur, chronic respiratory infections, asthma, vulnerability to every virus within ten miles. Hadn’t stopped him then. He was still Steve, even if he was too tired to move. Even if he didn’t feel like Steve.

            No one else was going to be you, or something. Some motivational saying. There was only one Steve.

            And it wasn’t like he could go back in time, back to his time. And he’d seen enough experimentation to know he was better off with PTSD than the gaping holes Bucky had ended up with. And everything else. Everything else Bucky had-

            God. Stop. You’ve gotta stop, Steve reminded himself. If he started down that path he’d be reliving the worst days of the war. And watching Bucky afterwards. Which Steve was supposed to be selfish enough not to want, or something.

            You’re good you’re fine you’re good you’re okay he’s okay you’re good you’re fine calm down Steve. Calm down. Please. For me?

            Fuck.

            Steve was broken out of his head an indeterminate amount of time later by the phone ringing. And he had to answer. In case it was an emergency.

            And he had been staring at the wall long enough to not want to be doing that anymore.

            “Hello?”

            “Hey,” Nat said. “You’re not at the site today. Are you alright?”

            Steve laughed. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

            “Bad day?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Is everything okay aside from that?”

            Steve sighed. “I don’t know. It’s not- I know it’s happening. I know when I’m spiraling even if I have a hard time getting out of it.”

            “When was the last time you ate?”

            “Toast. Nine or something.” He didn’t add that he remembered that, so that was a good sign, too, right?  
            Nat sounded exasperated and gentle. Which meant Steve had been staring at the wall too long. “It’s after noon. Do you want me to bring you some food?”

            “Sure.” Steve knew he needed to eat. Even if he didn’t want to. And didn’t feel hungry at all. Because if he didn’t eat today he’d have less energy for the house tomorrow.

            He still didn’t really want to move, but Nat was coming over. “I’ll be by in twenty minutes, okay?”

            “Yeah. Thanks. Love you.” It wasn’t a slip. He did it on purpose. He’d been thinking about his dead loved ones for too long not to do it on purpose.

            “Love you too,” Nat said without missing a beat, and hung up.

            He said it to her every time after that.

*

            The day after that Steve had a therapy appointment, during which he cried, again, but at least he was feeling relieved enough three hours later that he knew he’d be able to get back to the house the next morning.

            The place was really starting to look like a house now. Sure, it still had exposed Tyvek all over the sides, and yeah, the roof wasn’t fully on yet and the front door had yet to be painted and he didn’t have any drywall, but Steve had a house.

            Sam came over to help him finish the framing. They made plenty of jokes about how useful the wings woulda been, but neither of them thought it’d be wise to have unnecessary electrical equipment- however idiot proof- around exposed wood.

            Also Steve really needed to talk to Sam.

            He didn’t think that telling his friends about his dead family- or telling his new family about his dead family, which sounded a lot worse in Steve’s head- would turn into some kind of fucked up cathartic therapy supplement. Turned out talking helped, though. And Steve couldn’t keep not taking help where he needed it. And he’d already come out to Sam.

            “My ma never knew. It really bothered me for a while. That’s one of the hardest parts, you know? What your family thinks. But-” Steve stretched to adjust a piece of wood, “-I don’t think it would have changed anything with her. She was a nurse, help everyone no matter what. Doesn’t make a person very discriminatory. Doctors had different priorities, could be uppity about things- but I never met a nurse who minded a thing. They saw it all. And they didn’t judge. Can’t, in a job like that. And she loved me so much, I just don’t think it would have been possible for anything… ahh, damn. I’m getting choked up again.”

            Sam’s voice was quiet. “It’s alright to get choked up talking about your mother, Steve. I do it all the time, and I still see mine for dinner once a month and regular city visits.”

            “How is she?” Steve wiped his eyes before he could start really crying. “I’m not trying to change the subject, I just don’t think we’ll get this done if I burst into tears again.”

            “She’s good. Got a new job around the corner from where I used to work, actually. We haven’t had a chance to talk about it much, but I know it’s something to do with helping people find housing. That’s always been important to her. My aunt helped us out once when money was tight, and I knew that’s how my family thought but I’d never seen it in action. That level of being there for each other. Willing to do whatever you had to to help them out, even if you weren’t doing too well yourself. I think it really stuck with her.”

            Steve smiled. “Ask her a question for me the next time you see her?”

            “Sure. But you can come over for dinner next Thursday and ask her yourself. She’s in town that weekend to do something with my nieces.”

            “I’ll think about it.” Steve loved Sam’s mom. What was there to think about? He wasn’t going to have a bad day and have to cancel, he wasn’t- “No, I’ll be there. Have to ask if she knows how you and I got so lucky, getting great mas.”

            Sam laughed. “I don’t know if she’ll have an answer to that one. Pretty sure it boils down to love more than anything. That and sacrifice.”

            “Yeah.” Steve was feeling tired. And they only had one more thing to nail. And then the whole inside was framed.

            Steve nailed it.

            Sam let out a low whistle and stood back. “You’re really doing this.”

            “No need to sound so surprised,” Steve joked.

            “I’m not,” Sam said, making eye contact. “I’m proud of you.”

            Steve had to fight getting choked up again. “Thanks, Sam. Really glad my ability to nail two pieces of wood together is living up to your expectations.”

            They joked a little after that, and Steve walked with Sam back to the tower, and he decided if it was this nice outside the next night he was going to start sleeping in his house.


	5. Chapter 5

It took a long time to build a house.

            Steve thought once he’d got the outside done the rest would go up in simple steps- walls floors insulation drywall. There couldn’t be that much more to it.

            But electrical was _hard_.

            Steve wasn’t naïve enough to think he could hook himself up to the city grid all alone, let alone do much of the interior wiring. He had already opted out of doing his own plumbing, and _that_ couldn’t set things on fire. Plus Steve knew how many toilets he needed, which made for a pretty straightforward consultation. Electrical was not straightforward. A million things had changed since the time Steve would have built a house. He read a lot, sure, and retained some of it, yes, but how was he supposed to know how many outlets he needed in each room when he’d once felt lucky to have one for a whole apartment?

            That was where Tony came in. “You need a lot for the kitchen. I know you’re probably into hand-mashing potatoes and stuff, but if you’re not careful a damned smoothie could blow an outlet. And you’re going to need a giant fridge if you don’t have an extra one, because you eat like an Olympic swimmer, so that’s gonna take some wattage. What are we looking at here, Tom?”

            T&R Construction did not mess with plumbing any more than Steve did. Turned out they were very familiar with electric, though. Tom didn’t seem any more impressed by Tony than he had been by Steve. Steve was amused; it seemed to throw Tony off a little.

            “Well,” Tom started, and then launched into this big discussion with Tony that Steve tried really hard to follow but was only able to make out about half of. Which he supposed was decent, considering.

            In the end they settled for four outlets in the kitchen, because Steve thought five was just too much, and then he was discussing installation with Tom.

            “How’s this place on the inside?”

            Steve shrugged. “Everything’s sub-floored and framed, but we don’t have any interior anything up yet. I was waiting for you on that. Didn’t know where’d be best to put everything. I’m guessing we don’t want plumbing and electrical too close, just in case?”

            Tom laughed. “Depends how good your guys are, but that’s definitely a consideration. And thanks for waiting. I wouldn’t have wanted to rip out half your walls because you got impatient. I know you’re going by the book for this one, but you’d be surprised how many folks lack common sense when it comes to stuff like this. Either that or they don’t want to go tearing down half the building, which I respect, but then we have to work around the architecture.”

            “That’s half the reason I’m building this place. I didn’t want something old that looked new, I just wanted something…” Steve trailed off. He didn’t want to say ‘like the forties would have been’ because he hadn’t been around for most of those and pretending he’d come out of the ice sooner wasn’t going to help him get used to where he lived now.

            Tom had a word that fit. “Classic. Hard to find nowadays. Nice to work with someone who appreciates craftsmanship.”

            Steve grinned. He’d be throwing those words around for days, classic and craftsmanship, annoying the hell out of Tony. And making him see what Steve meant in all this, he hoped.

*

            By interior wall day Steve didn’t talk to Buck much anymore.

            He did, still, had to, sometimes, but he’d been working on the house for weeks and Nat had finally started relaxing more around him (not that she hadn’t been relaxed before, but it was clear that she’d been worried). And Sam stopped shooting him that look like he thought Steve was going to explode.

            Mostly when he talked to Bucky it was at night. The ones when he couldn’t sleep because he’d spent the whole day distracted by the house and the imaginary places weren’t enough to shut his brain down. When he’d suggested he move to the house before it was done Tony had thrown a fit, so Steve was still sleeping at the tower. That was probably good, since all he did all the time was house house house and getting away from it even for a few hours was a relief in and of itself.

            Relief or not, Buck would’ve had to drag him away every night. As it was someone was usually calling him at eight to make sure his 10-14 hour workday was over. They didn’t usually have to come drag Steve home themselves, because Steve was getting better. Still was nice to know he was expected home.

            Soon the tower wouldn’t be home anymore, though, and Steve still couldn’t wrap his mind around it: a home that had no family. A place that was just Steve’s. Could it even be a home, without-?

            Of course it could. And he did have family. A few blocks away and probably they’d come over all the time. And Steve had to get used to it. To being alone. He’d never in his life been alone, and it was a sick kind of opportunity, but he wanted to know what it’d be like to have that level of independence. Even if it’d sort of suck that the people who cared about him wouldn’t be two floors away at any given time.

            There was a familiarity to the place, though, a rightness. Steve knew his house. It was his. Time spent in the house may be all work all the time, but he’d been watching it go up from a dirt hole in the ground. And the process was far from lonely; Steve ended up hiring more people than he’d initially thought. And, okay, maybe Pepper was right- he was way too impatient to drag it out. Because Steve could have done everything himself, albeit slowly. But if he hired people he’d get it done well and faster and every time he walked through the unpainted front door he got this flutter of excitement that it was all happening and he’d be damned if he fell so hard into isolation he fucked that up.

            And then his house had walls.

            And the isolation was looming a few days away, after the painting and the furniture picking and the kitchen installing. In just a few days even the things his friends would have trusted him to do unsupervised would be finished, and then-

            And then Steve was gonna wait for Bucky to come home.

            That was another thing. He couldn’t stop calling him Bucky, even though he knew it was a bad idea.

            And he wasn’t going to call him anything else, when he talked to him.

            Steve walked through the empty house and felt like he needed to talk to him.

            “It was ridiculous for me to think this could be home without you, Buck. Even if you don’t want to come back. If you don’t come back I’ll fill the walls with pictures and make sure your favorite record’s at the top of the pile and we’ll get ice cream once a week because it doesn’t- because I-” Steve cut off. The cost of ice cream was nothing now, and it wasn’t like the stuff messing with his stomach or his sinuses was even possible anymore. And he’d said ‘we.’ “Shit. Sorry, Buck. But you’ll always have a place here. In my home. Even if you don’t want it.”

            That made him feel sad. The white walls were making Steve feel sad. For the first time in days he wasn’t wondering which colors to paint which rooms or how much furniture he’d need to fill an entire house. He was thinking it felt empty anyway, and it couldn’t, he didn’t want that, this was Steve’s house goddamnit, Steve’s house, his, he’d built it from the ground up, and-

            “And I was doing so well,” Steve said, smirking, breathless. He was gripping a doorframe for support. “Damn, Buck. Even thousands of miles away you can still get to me.”

            Steve didn’t want him to be that far away. Steve wanted him to be right here.

            He’d been doing well for a while. And the walls were up. Steve could cry about that, couldn’t he?

*

            “I’m taking an art class.”

            “Oh?” Nat said over her milkshake. Steve hadn’t noticed her drinking it, but the thing looked almost gone. Huh.

            “Yeah. I’m just going to do once a week, and I’m waiting to sign up ‘til the next round, but I figure if I want to start drawing real things again-” and meeting people who liked art again maybe and building something into his life that could almost feel whole without Bucky- “-it’s best to get in some practice.”

            Nat slurped up the last drops of shake and smiled. “That’ll be great. I always knew you were made for more than punching things.” From anyone else it would have felt like an insult. From her it felt like she was bragging about him without making him feel too uncomfortable.

            God, Steve loved Nat. “Thanks. You’ll have to remind Clint of that next time I come into the gym.”

            “House has been keeping you busy, I take it?”

            “Yeah.” Steve had gone to grab dinner with a few of the Avengers recently, but it was nowhere near as often as before. Hell, right after the aliens there’d been someone on Steve duty 24/7, and he was pretty sure they still had a group message about him. They must have thought he was doing better. Well, apart from the other night, but nobody knew about that ‘cept him and- “Damnit,” Steve said under his breath.

            “Forget to lock the front door?” Nat asked, even though she clearly knew that wasn’t it.

            “Having trouble separating my recovery from Bucky again.”

            “Ah.” Nat never pressed, which Steve appreciated. Probably told her more than anyone else because of it. “You know,” she said slowly, twirling the spoon around her empty glass, “people are complicated. I know you’re trying to get through this- for you, I think- but that doesn’t mean you’ll be able to untangle-”

            She stopped immediately when Steve held up a hand. “I know. I’m working on it.”

            Nat nodded. And trusted him. And then they talked about something else.

            God, he loved Nat.

*

            Clint came over to help with the bathrooms.

            Steve had three bathrooms, which he thought was a little much, but damn, one was directly off his bedroom and Steve would not live somewhere an injured Avenger couldn’t crash without having to do stairs. Thus the three bathrooms.

            When Steve explained this to Clint, Clint understood immediately. “Right. This house is yours, but it isn’t just for you. You’re so fucking selfless- not the point. The point is, you’re on the right track. But bathrooms are about more than just patching up wounds to avoid weird questions at the hospital.”

            Steve raised his eyebrows.

            “Bathrooms,” Clint said with a grand gesture around the one they were standing in, “are about having a moment alone.”

            Oh. Yeah. Steve understood that. He escaped to the bathroom every time an Avengers game night got too intense. Or when he had a flashback halfway through dinner. Or when that stupid fucking song came on that always reminded him of Bucky.

            Clint proceeded to help Steve design the most beautiful bathrooms Steve had ever seen.

            He hadn’t planned much of the interior in advance; mostly Steve was concerned with using building materials that’d last and making sure he’d fit in all the showers. What came next was Clint called ‘the fun part’ as they strolled through the bath aisle of the nearest hardware store.

            Steve didn’t know how fun designing a bathroom could be ‘til he got to do it with Clint.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit longer than usual but I didn't feel right breaking it up! They'll be regular length again afterwards until the last one :)

            “Damn,” Sam said as he looked at the bathroom.

            “Yeah,” Steve agreed with a shrug.

            “You two should go into business.”

            Steve laughed. “I wish. I may be an artist, but most of this was Clint.”

            It was a top-notch bathroom. All of them were. The downstairs one had a massive shower with a seat and plenty of room for first-aid supplies, while both the upstairs bathrooms had showers and tubs and themed candles. They’d had to go to a few more stores after the hardware place. Steve had no complaints.

            Sam sat on the bench in the shower and gave the alcove a once-over. “You really thought of everything, didn’t you? With that showerhead. And the- this bench? Dude, this is equipped for post-multiple-gunshot-wound showers. Not that I want any of us to need that ever, but-”

            “Yeah,” Steve said again. “That was the idea. Also I’d like to fit comfortably in my own shower. And not have it spray fifteen different directions like Tony’s does.” It’d taken Steve four training sessions with Jarvis to figure out how to get only one showerhead going at a time. Which was why Steve’s showers had normal functional well-labeled handles like all showers should.

            “If Tony didn’t keep the freezer stocked with Ben and Jerry’s, I’d consider moving here.”

            “You know I’d buy all the ice cream you could ever want, Sam.” Steve remembered his last chat with imaginary Bucky. It stung. “The fridge’ll be ready to hold food tomorrow.”

            “Yes.” Sam stepped out of the shower. “But this is your house.”

            Steve glanced away and tried not to blush, even though he shouldn’t be blushing over this. “Yes it is.” And maybe Sam would come over, sometimes, and he’d always be welcome, because it was Steve’s house. But it was Steve’s house. Something he had in this century that was really his. It’d make sense to have some time getting used to it before-

            Sam clapped him on the shoulder and went back into the mostly-white family room without another word.

            “Want to see the upstairs ones? I know you like the brown, earthy tones and all that, but those two are blue. I think Clint was going for a more serene kind of nautical theme. Also something about how the accent tiles would bring out my eyes and it’d make me a hit with all my steadies, or something.”

            “He didn’t call them ‘steadies,’ did he?” Sam asked as he led the way up the stairs.

            Steve shook his head even though Sam couldn’t see. “I think he called them ‘fuckbuddies.’ Or maybe it was ‘hot interim sex friends.’ I’m not sure.” Steve hadn’t told all the Avengers he was hopelessly in love with Bucky and probably always would be; at some point they’d all just figured it out, usually before he opened his mouth about anything. And Steve wasn’t going to go having sex with strangers anytime soon, but he knew- Steve was almost open to the idea of being with someone else if he couldn’t be with Bucky. Almost. “Clint mentioned the mystery lovers a lot. Apparently their comfort is as important as yours when it comes to designing a bathroom.”

            “I get that. Don’t want someone spending the night and then judging you for your subway tiles. Wait, how’d you get- whose idea was it to tile this whole bath area? And where did you find such a nice claw-foot tub? You shopped in New York, right? And, like, used a reasonable amount of money instead of what Tony would have spent?”

            “Funny story, Clint’s actually really good at restoring porcelain…”  
*

            “You can’t leave.”

            Steve sighed. “Tony, the kitchen’s half-installed and the bathrooms have been done for days. The locks are set and all of you have keys.”

            “What if I need to invent something in the middle of the night and I need you to lift a piece that’s too heavy but too delicate for my robots to handle?”

            “I repeat: you have keys. If it’s that important, you could call or have Jarvis wake me. It’s, what, a few minutes’ run for me from my house to here?”

            Tony huffed something along the lines of ‘takes a normal person at least twenty,’ but crossed his arms and slumped his shoulders in defeat. “Fine. You can leave. But you have to promise to call me if anything happens. Or Jarvis. Call me or Jarvis. You have his number, right?”

            “I’ve had it since before I moved here.”

            Tony nodded. “Okay. Alright. I guess there’s no stopping you. When the baby bird wants to leave the nest the baby bird wants to leave the nest.”

            Steve raised his eyebrows. “I’m definitely not young enough to be your-”

            “Oh, shut it, you don’t know how old I am,” Tony said with a wave of his hand, and Steve realized that was probably true. “I’ve been turning thirty-six for at least three years now, and you’re not the type to look up your fellow Avengers online.”

            Steve decided to take that as a compliment and not feel too guilty about not knowing Tony’s real age. Even though he’d known Tony’s dad and possibly flirted with him one or twelve times. “Do you want a hug?”

            “Yes,” Tony said, and launched himself at Steve.

            Steve was startled out of breath, but wrapped his arms around Tony quick before he gave up. Wasn’t every day Tony Stark willingly hugged someone. “I’m going to be fine. I’m sure I’ll see you three times a week at least.”

            “Four, and I want daily text messages.”

            Steve laughed. “We don’t talk that much now.”

            “That’s because we don’t have to talk that much now. I take it for granted that I could come to your floor at any time and possibly find you reading about history or taking online personality quizzes.”

            “I’ll be right around the corner,” Steve assured him.

            “And I can always drive you, sir,” Jarvis said.

            “Yeah, yeah, alright.” Tony pulled away from Steve and nudged him towards the door. “Get going, kid. There’s an air mattress on a shiny new floor calling your name.”

            Steve grinned and picked up his massive duffel bag. Everything important he owned was in it; if he wanted anything else Tony had assured him he could come over anytime to get it.

            Steve didn’t mention as he left that he had a sleeping bag instead of an air mattress on the floor. He didn’t want Tony insisting the house get an intensive Stark once-over before Steve so much as took off his shoes in the place.

            Turned out that Steve did not want to take off his shoes just yet, because the floors were clean, but they weren’t _that_ clean.

            After depositing his bag in his room, Steve decided he really should go out and buy a few more things. Like shampoo he chose for himself instead of whatever expensive stuff Tony provided. And maybe a broom to make the floors less hazardous.

            Even though he’d left the tower pretty late, Steve knew for a fact the nearest Target was open ‘til midnight, because Nat had dragged him there once at eleven on some pretense Steve had long since forgotten. Steve hadn’t been shopping much in all the time he’d been back; the only thing he needed to get for himself (unless he wanted to wear shirts two sizes too small all the damn time) was clothes. Everything else had been provided by Tony or picked up in D.C. convenience stores when Steve lived in an apartment he had to upkeep himself.

            Truth be told, part of the reason Steve had avoided huge stores was the culture shock. Yes, you could get a wide range of things at the grocery even in his day, but the sheer quantity of choice offered by the twenty-first century was overwhelming. Steve didn’t need an entire aisle’s worth of laundry detergent to choose from. Choice was nice, but was it really necessary for his clothes to smell like lavender mist or pine forest or whatever other scent they had?

            Not really. Thus the avoidance of Target up to that point. But now Steve had a house. That’d require upkeep. Cooking and cleaning if he didn’t decide to outsource those, and why would he, he’d built the damned house himself. And regular maintenance of everything. Making sure the faucet wasn’t leaking or the window wasn’t stuck. No landlord or Jarvis or Buck to help anymore. And then there was the outside. Steve was in love with his yard, but he had absolutely no idea what he was going to do with it. He’d never had a yard before. Closest he’d come was Buck’s parents’ house, and Steve wasn’t exactly leaping at the chance to inhale pollen in those days.

            Nine thirty on the first night he’d sleep in his house wasn’t time for gardening, though. It was time for cleaning supplies. And maybe something to eat for breakfast. And silverware to eat it with and a plate to put it on and something to cook it in.

            Steve had been in the century long enough to know the basics- metal scratches nonstick pans, smell everything scented before you buy it (he’d had to ask Jarvis to order three different soaps before he found one that didn’t drive his sense of smell crazy), quality is still quality and no Clint I do not want to visit the ‘as seen on TV’ section of Bed Bath & Beyond. Luckily Steve was very satisfied with his sleeping bag and didn’t plan on designing anything drastic until he chose the kitchen backsplash, which he still had not done even though the house had long since been livable enough for Steve. Tony had insisted he take things with him, but Steve didn’t want to take things with him that weren’t his; for as welcome as he’d always felt in Tony’s house, those were Tony’s pillows and Tony’s chairs and Tony’s plates and Steve hadn’t had any complaints but he also hadn’t picked anything like that out for himself in his life, and this was his life now, so he was picking out his own plates.

            That was when it hit him: Steve didn’t know how to do this. Not that there was anything to know, he knew there wasn’t some grand secret to living on your own, he’d figured that out decades ago with Buck, it just- they’d had things. Inherited things, or things they’d picked up for cheap when their ‘furnished’ apartment turned out not to have a sofa or a nightstand. There wasn’t a lotta choice required in those scenarios. Steve and Buck had got what was decent and what they could afford. Now, everything seemed decent- or at least up to the standards of mass production in the new millennium, which, alright, Steve wasn’t buying everything today, he could get what he needed and test how well the stuff held up and decide if he needed more.

            And he would need more. Because an Avengers movie night required at least three massive popcorn bowls and a pantry full of food besides, and Steve had… three bathrooms, a functional but unfinished kitchen, and a sleeping bag. And no couch.

            He was getting overwhelmed. No. You don’t need a couch today, you just need whatever to get through the night and the morning. Calm down.

            Steve hated that. Buck wouldn’t’a said it. He’d’ve said, “Hey, Stevie, no need to get all twisted up. Just grab what you need and get home, okay?” and then Steve was freaking out in the kitchen section of Target.

            When his breathing evened back out and he was able to get up off the floor, Steve noticed an employee arranging stock at the endcap. At first he thought she hadn’t noticed him, but then she poked her head around and asked, “You okay?” and all Steve could do was look embarrassed.

            “It’s fine, I know the feeling. Didn’t want to scare you. You good now?”

            Steve sighed. It’d be really easy to lie. But she sounded so sincere, and she was looking at him the same way Tom had; like he was probably Captain America sometimes but he sure as hell wasn’t that guy just then. “Not really. I mean I’m fine, I just- I’m moving into a new place tonight and I don’t have any stuff.”

            “Ah.” She set down whatever she was holding and stepped a few feet into his aisle. “Do you want some help?”

            Steve let out a sigh of relief. “Yeah. Thanks. That would be… really good.”

            She smiled. “Okay. I’m Mabel, by the way. Nametag snapped in half, not sure how that happened- anyway, new place. No stuff.”  
            “Right,” Steve said with a nod.

            Mabel raised her eyebrows. “And you only have a basket? No cart?”

            Steve looked down at his basket and back up at Mabel. “I wasn’t planning on buying that much stuff. I haven’t even finished the kitchen.” He didn’t know why it was so easy to talk to her. Probably because she was looking at him like some hopeless guy who didn’t know how to be on his own and not- well, anything else.

            “Okay. So, just what you need for a couple days, then?”

            Steve nodded.

            “Cool. I’m guessing you don’t have any plates?”

            They were in the aisle with the plates. “Nope,” Steve said.

            “Well, you will need those, but you don’t want to go buying a whole dinner set or anything like that if you don’t know what you want yet.”

            “That’s kind of why I was having a hard time.”

            “Right. Okay. This is what I’d do. Run through the night and the next day or two in your head, try and make a list of everything you need. Not all at once, just- take it step by step. Like, what do you need to go to sleep? Do you have enough blankets, or toilet paper, things like that. Then just walk around the store, pick up the bare minimum, and you can come back if you need anything else tomorrow.”

            Steve rubbed his eyes. He’d been making this way too complicated. Mabel was right. He’d spent the better part of his life sick in a crappy apartment or a few miles from a battlefield. He wouldn’t need much. “Thanks. I think I need some shampoo, first?”

            “Back by the food and make a left. You good?”

            “Yeah. Thanks. I think I can take it from here.”

            Mabel nodded. “Good. But don’t be afraid to ask the customer service desk if you need anything. I mean- I wouldn’t be weird about it. If you need help, or whatever. I work ‘til close and we’re not too busy. They’ll page me.”

            “Thanks,” Steve said, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

            After he got to the shampoo Steve kept going through the list of what he’d do when he got home; shower, brush his teeth, get a glass of water- Mabel had moved on to another area but Steve was only buying a couple glasses so he could handle it- go to sleep. Pillow. He wanted a pillow. Carrying it through the store was a little awkward, but Steve was almost done, right?

            Once he was settled in he’d draw and sleep. Steve had his sketchbook and a few pencils. But light. He’d need to see what he was doing. And it wasn’t interior decorating time. So, clip-on reading light. Good enough for serum enhanced eyes.

            By the time Steve checked out, he’d gotten a really cool mop thing that wiped the floors without you having to crawl around, so his sleeping bag wouldn’t be covered in sawdust, and a little broom and dustpan, so he could sweep up any nails lying around, and cereal, fruit, and crackers, which would get him to at least midday with a minimal amount of fanfare and no plates required.


	7. Chapter 7

The first night in the house went surprisingly well.

            Steve had been worried on and off in the days before that he might not be able to sleep, that it’d feel too empty or not safe enough or that he’d get so worked up about it that he wouldn’t be tired. But none of that happened. Steve got home, cleaned the floor, showered, changed into his pajamas, got a glass of water, and settled into his sleeping bag to sketch. His bedroom was clean. The bathrooms had been stocked with soap and toilet paper since they’d been finished, and the shiny new fridge had cooled down and was empty and waiting for his apples. The door was locked, the temperature was comfortable, and Steve was in his house.

            He passed out a minute after he got the reading light shut off.

            When Steve woke up, he found himself in almost the exact same position he’d been in when he fell asleep. Which, okay, he was stiff, but- he’d slept better that night than he had in months, or years, maybe.

            Steve laughed as he slipped on shoes and socks with his pajamas and went to eat his cereal. He hadn’t gone running in a while- he’d rather spend his time and energy on the house, and more often than not there was physical exertion involved in the work. Steve hadn’t gotten milk, but he didn’t really need it; besides, the fridge was empty except for the apples. No use filling it up when he’d have to move it later to lay the tile. Steve smiled as he replied to Nat’s good morning text, and Tony’s ‘this is actually important I don’t just miss you’ sounding text, and the one that said Sam was proud of him. He even texted Clint about the amazing showers. Steve got a bunch of emojis back.

            So what if he’d eaten breakfast on the dining room floor? And so what if every time his clothes touched something they came away a little dusty? Steve was in _his house_.

            It was almost like there wasn’t a gaping hole next to him where Bucky should be. Almost.

            Steve could almost not feel that. Because he had made a thing that was his pride and joy and he was standing in it, and it was his. Even if Bucky wasn’t there. Steve had made something for himself. Even if it wasn’t the way he’d imagined, when he’d gotten around to imagining a future for himself at all.

*

            Steve realized after the first day with no friends or construction crews, after the first day with just him and the house, that it’d be much easier to do things in order of importance than it would be to design the hell out of the house and then buy everything in one go. Which meant Steve needed a table. And maybe a bed, in case he had a bad day again and the sleeping bag wasn’t protective enough.

            Much though he would have loved to buy everything at Target, Steve had seen enough of the place to know they didn’t boast a big furniture selection. He typed ‘furniture near me’ into his phone search bar and started walking.

            By lunch he had a table and chairs for the kitchen, a sofa for the family room, and an area rug. Hell, the family room was basically done. All he needed was a way to watch movies and a bunch of enthusiastic Avengers. And a coat of paint, but that’d come later. Steve was not ready for paint yet.

He grabbed something quick for lunch and went to pick out a bed frame next. A simple one that didn’t look too angular but also wouldn’t have cost more than a few months’ rent if he’d bought it back in 1939. On the way out of the store Steve found a side table he really really liked and decided it’d be a good nightstand. Since he was planning on having a bed by the end of the day.

Steve walked home having accomplished this mission. Mattress shopping kept him out of the house ‘til six o’clock. But it was happening. Steve was living in his house. Even if he didn’t have kitchen tiles or more than a few pieces of undelivered furniture. And living in his house meant Steve needed to go grocery shopping for real, because cereal wasn’t going to cut it for dinner and honestly the idea of eating out when he had a perfectly good (if tile-less) kitchen made Steve shudder.

            Since he didn’t have one of his friends forcing him to go to Whole Foods, Steve got the stuff he needed without getting dizzy about prices. He made pancakes and eggs in new pans and ate them off a new plate. Steve had followed Mabel’s advice and only picked a few things; he had what he needed to cook and eat uncomplicated meals. The rest would come later.

            Steve’s second night in the sleeping bag wasn’t as good as the first. But he’d expected that, on account of the gaping hole that had been following him around since the train. And he slept as well as he had on a good night in the tower. Better, actually. ‘Cause it was Steve’s house. And something about that made the unoccupied floor next to him seem less awful.

*

            Steve had decided to take advantage of his seventy years of back-pay and have his furniture delivered as soon as possible.

            Since the furniture salespeople mostly recognized him, this meant he got his furniture the day after he bought it. When she’d heard about furniture Nat had invited herself over, and she came in as Steve was moving the sofa trying to figure out where he wanted it.

            “Nice place you got here,” Nat said easily, and sat down on the sofa.

            “Thanks.” Steve pushed it a few inches to the left and frowned. “I don’t know where to put this.”

            Nat stretched out, propping her head behind her hands on one armrest and just reaching the other side of the partial-but-not-really sectional with her toes. “Don’t look at me. You’re the artist.”

            “Why does everyone keep saying that?” Steve asked, annoyed. And then grabbed the part of the sofa Nat wasn’t lounging on like a cat to rotate it so the longer part backed up against the window.

            “Steve, it doesn’t matter. It’s your house. The only one who needs to be happy with it is you.”

            “That’s bullshit, and you know it. If I was the only one who needed to like this place, I wouldn’t be buying a projector for movie night.”

            “Fair point.” Nat sprung off the couch and took a few steps back to look at the room. “I think the place you had it before would be better. If this is the room where the projector’s going.”

            Steve sighed. “I really don’t want a projector.”

            Nat leaned sideways to bump shoulders with him. “Don’t get one, then. I’m sure Tony’d be offended you didn’t ask him to handcraft one for you, anyway. I’m also sure he carries a multipurpose holo-thing in his pocket that works better than an IMAX movie.”

            “Are those the extra-big ones?”

            “Yes, Steve. Those are the extra-big ones. So I guess don’t put any art on this wall.”

            Steve shook his head. “It’s not staying white. But what’s it matter, we can just hang a sheet from the ceiling.”

            “I miss your resourcefulness, Rogers.”

            “I’m not coming back on the team,” Steve said flatly. “Not yet, anyway.”

            “Wasn’t asking. I meant in the tower.”

            Steve stared. “Do you even live in the tower?”

            Nat shrugged. “Opposite Tuesdays and every other weekend.”

            “What’s an opposite Tuesday?”

            “Sorry, Rogers. That’s classified.”

            Steve huffed. “Help me put the couch back. Don’t want everyone having to sit with their backs to the window.”

            Nat shook her head as she helped spin the couch back the original way Steve’d had it. “Do you ever think of yourself?”

            “A little. Not really. I’m building myself a house, aren’t I?”

            “Sounds more like an Avengers guesthouse to me,” Nat said, but she was laughing.

*

            Decorating took a lot longer than Steve thought.

            He knew if he didn’t get the kitchen out of the way it’d drive him insane, because that was one of the places that changed less over time and it wasn’t like he hadn’t picked the cabinets forever ago they were already installed he just needed a paint color and handles and a damned floor.

            The selection at any given hardware store- or even Hobby Lobby, if you were talking small stuff- was mind-blowing, as Tony’s architect had helpfully warned Steve. And it wasn’t even her job to find kitchen handles. Steve had figured the selection anywhere would be too much for him, but with the warning at least he wasn’t clueless. Basically, if he didn’t sort of know what he was looking for, he’d be lost.

            Thus the sample swatches for the cabinets, floors, and countertops that Steve took to the store so he could choose a motherfucking backsplash.

            Steve hadn’t been as thoughtful about this design choice as some of the others; he’d known going into necessary-furniture day, for example, that his sofa had to be big enough to fit everyone and look like a _sofa_ and not a _modern art piece_. The only thing Steve could think when he tried to imagine a finished kitchen was green.

            Turned out green was all he needed, because Steve fell in love with the tile the moment he saw it. If he hadn’t already done the rest of the rooms in wood, Steve might have carried it through the whole first floor hallway.

            “You don’t want statement tile everywhere if you’re doing art,” Nat advised him over the phone.

            Steve didn’t know why he had to tell her about the tile. He just… it was the best. And she’d responded to his text by calling him. “I was thinking it’d be nice to create a sense of continuity, since there aren’t any sightlines straight through the house and-”

            “Steve?” She was smiling. He could hear it in her voice.

            “Yeah?”

            “Your floors are beautiful. And I’m sure the kitchen will be beautiful, too. But if I let you rip up hundreds, if not thousands of dollars’ worth of wood floor just because you liked this tile, you’d hate both of us for it later.”

            “I know. But it’s really pretty.”

            Nat laughed. “I’ll help you install it. As long as it just goes in the kitchen.”

            “Okay.” Steve started stacking boxes of the stuff in his cart. “Are you free right now?”

            “Unfortunately not. I also have a feeling the tile’s the first thing you’ve found for the kitchen?”

            Steve tried not to sound defensive. “What gives you that idea?”

            “It’s ten in the morning and I don’t think most places have been open very long.”

            “Fair enough. And I guess you have a point. Might as well do the whole thing in one day and then have at least one finished room while I do everything else.”

            “You’ve got Clint’s bathrooms.”

            Steve smiled. “Those only half-count.”

            “They have candles.”

            “Okay, fine. All the essential places will be done, first, then. Starting with the kitchen. When are you free?”

            “I can push some stuff tomorrow. I’ll have to duck out for a few hours, though. Important meetings.”

            Steve’s smile turned ridiculous and he didn’t even care. “Great. I’ll try and have a paint color by then, alright?”  
            “As long as you do the painting while I’m at the meetings. I don’t want to be smelling that stuff for the entire day.”

            Steve hummed his agreement. He didn’t bring up the fact that Nat’d probably still smell it anyway, or the trick he’d read about online that might make the paint smell less awful and make it easier for him to hang out in his rooms before they were completely dry. He hadn’t painted anything yet to find out if it worked.


	8. Chapter 8

The trick partially worked.

            When she got back from whatever top-secret argument she’d been having with Fury, Nat claimed the fresh paint smell was almost as bad as huffing the stuff straight out of the can, but not quite. Steve had super senses and he thought dumping a bunch of orange extract into the paint had worked surprisingly well, so he kept his mouth shut and asked which corner she wanted to tile first.

            There were a couple reasons they waited until the end of the day to lay Steve’s precious tiles. One of them was that you weren’t supposed to walk on them right away and Steve figured it’d be easier to make the setting window be the middle of the night instead of during the day. The other reason was that Steve knew the room wouldn’t look remotely finished without the tiles, and he wanted the transformation from ‘only room you’ve remotely started’ to ‘your kitchen’ to be a little dramatic. It was the first room he was finishing that he’d designed entirely himself.

            “You’re right,” Steve said as he and Nat stepped back to view their handiwork. “The whole entry and hallway would have been too much.”

            Nat clicked her tongue in satisfaction and didn’t comment. Then she said, “You have a kitchen.”

            “I have a kitchen,” Steve agreed. If he wasn’t trying to break in his new bed and not inhale paint fumes, he would have slept downstairs that night.

            The kitchen looked just as right in the morning.

            Steve tested the tiles and then moved his new kitchen table onto them. He was planning on using the dining room- and not having miles of extra useless space everywhere- so the kitchen table was a small one, simple light wood and only two chairs. It was technically in a hallway, since there wasn’t much room on this side of the kitchen island and the wall ended at the door to the garage.

             Even though he wasn’t designing the house specifically for anybody but himself, and even though Steve felt more comfortable there than he had anywhere since before winter in Europe, he’d factored escapes and sightlines into the floorplan. The entryway was a contained area, big enough not to feel claustrophobic but only fully open to the rest of the house in one corner. You had to go through the guest room on the first floor to get to the back door. That coincided with the whole helping injured teammates thing. And the building itself was well-insulated enough that even if someone did find out where Captain America lived, they wouldn’t be able to do damage without explosives or a break-in.

            Also all the windows were made of Tony’s missile-proof glass. So even explosives, at least standard earth ones, would probably take a few tries.

            Steve could rely on his senses for the rest of his safety. Anything strong enough to get past all of the Avengers unscathed (because Jarvis was keeping an eye on Steve’s property, and they would all die to protect each other, Steve was pretty sure) could have him. Because if it got past all that, Steve’d have nothing left in this century to live for and when in his life hadn’t he thought he’d go down swinging?

            The thought was gone a lot faster than they usually were. Steve didn’t wonder what it’d be like if he’d really died in the ice so often anymore. Didn’t think of the twentieth century as a vast confusion with only a few points of clarity- the people who’d miss him, but didn’t necessarily need him- to give meaning to anything. Well, them and justice, or freedom, or whatever Steve’d go back to fighting for once he felt better enough. He’d heard the term ‘social justice’ used to describe all the things he stood for. Maybe he should start using that. Transfer the meaning of the shield from some imaginary American ideal into something better.

            If that was what Steve was fighting for, universal human rights, he could maybe be Captain America again.

            He’d get to that later, though. Steve had a house to finish. And a self to get… somewhere good. Which he already was, sort of.

            Because he’d built a house and now he was filling it up and making it more his with every kitchen tile. And that felt better than anything Steve had done in a long time. Maybe short of the social justice Captain America thing, but. Gotta put on your own oxygen mask first.

*

            “I wasn’t thinking about Bucky.”

            “Bucky?” That’s right. She didn’t know. Steve hadn’t told his therapist more than-

            His heart beat faster but he kept talking anyway. “Yeah. Bucky. I… we were really close. You know that. But it was more. Hell, you probably figured that out, too. It’s not hard. And it’s not like I was hiding it, or anything. But I- I’ve tried to keep that kind of separate. From this. Because whatever I have with him, it has to be on hold for now. And that’s fine. I get it. But I- I thought about everything I’d die for in this century, and Buck was part of it, he’s always part of it, but I- for once he wasn’t separate, you know? It wasn’t this separate weight, this other thing that wasn’t connected to the rest of my life. I made a house that he could come to, and I’d die for him and the rest of the Avengers, and nothing they’ve ever said or done has made me doubt they’d do the same for me, so-” Steve cut off, not sure where the thought had been going.

It wasn’t like he’d just made some massive breakthrough. He was always thinking about Bucky somewhere, because you couldn’t love someone that much and not. But something about the house, his house, connected things in a way they hadn’t been before. He could be Buck’s best friend and the loosest canon among the Avengers at the same time. Steve wasn’t pieces of things that didn’t match up, he just was.

Something about his house, about his life, about everything he’d been building, let the dissonant parts of Steve exist at once. In a way that didn’t feel like he was being ripped apart.

‘Cause he’d built a life for himself. A life that was a continuation of his life before instead of a waking nightmare. Steve Rogers was a century old but he was living, damnit. He was doing it.

Steve talked about other stuff for the rest of the time, but he couldn’t really focus. The important part had already happened. And Steve was realizing things all the time, it wasn’t- there was nothing special about this SHIELD-mandated meeting. He had to be okay when he got back to work, so he’d do what he needed to be okay and get back to reshaping the image of Captain America.

But. Steve got it now. In a way he hadn’t before.

He’d remembered some of his sense of purpose because it felt like the same sense of purpose. Brooklyn Steve and Cap Steve felt like the same person again. Like when he’d joined the war for real and become more than a propaganda tool.

For some reason the first person he felt like telling was Tony.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Tony asked.

Steve didn’t know what he meant. Hadn’t he just said that it- “What does?”

“Getting through life. Being alive. Doing it. That recovery thing.”

Steve realized he’d called Tony because he knew Tony would get it, too. “Yeah. Yeah, it does.”

“We’re having a pizza party to celebrate. Blame it on you finally painting your bedroom and convince Thor to teleport down from his astral kingdom. Should we do it in the tower?”

Steve shook his head even though Tony couldn’t see. “No. No way. If we’re celebrating my house I want to have it in my house.”

“How long would you need before you really want people over? Like, more than two at a time?”

Steve considered. “A week, maybe.”

“Okay. I hereby declare this pizza party scheduled for two weeks from Tuesday.”

Tuesday was tomorrow, but Steve didn’t feel the need to point that out. Jarvis would tell him. And Tony’d known well enough to give Steve some extra time to take the pressure off. That was good enough for him. “I might actually have some of the upstairs done by then.” If Steve had his way he’d have every room painted and at least a little furnished. Tony didn’t need to know that though. Ruin the surprise.

“As long as Clint’s bathrooms are part of the tour. I’ve heard so much about Clint’s bathrooms.”

“You’re gonna love them,” Steve promised. “They have candles.”

*

            The family room got warm orangey light brown walls and a ridiculously bright rug and an ottoman with a tray in the middle and a squashy chair. Steve wasn’t going to do any of the art right away; he figured either he’d know it when he saw it or he’d throw up either photos or something he did himself, once he got into drawing and painting again. Save for the empty back bedroom, which Steve planned on doing next since it felt like the next room he was supposed to do, the whole back of the house had a flow going. Steve did the family room paint color up the walls near the stairs, and he’d bought a few frames already to start hanging sneaky candids of the Avengers whenever he could get them. The stairs also had a deep, warm, faintly Christmassy runner on them because Steve had almost slipped on them about six times already.

            Steve did a whole day going around with Tony choosing light fixtures. He knew Tony was neck-deep in projects and would probably go a little crazy if he saw the state of Steve’s house just then, so he figured it was better to stick to something Tony was good at and Steve wasn’t- shopping- and give both of them a day in the city instead of trapped inside with their work. Tony’d done his electrical consult, anyway; it only made sense for him to help pick out the lights.

            The day ended when Steve couldn’t think of any more light fixtures he needed and also wanted to stop arguing with Tony about the relative merits of chandeliers.

            “They’re classy. Elegant. Go with your whole- what are you calling it?”

            Steve shrugged. “’Long as it’s not too modern, I don’t mind.”

            Tony sighed. “Chandeliers are old-school, and I’m guessing they’ll go with the style of the house. Of course I haven’t seen anything yet because I am very busy and don’t want to end up finishing your house myself. But still. You didn’t do much to your place at the tower, so I figured-”

            “How _is_ my place at the tower?”

            Tony glared for a second, not used to being interrupted by Steve, and then glanced away. “Fine.”

            “You haven’t renovated at all, have you?”

            “I’m going to be late for dinner if you keep pestering me, Rogers. Jarvis, where’s the car?”

            Steve heard the voice respond into Tony’s earpiece: “I can bring it around, sir.”

            “Excellent. Sorry to cut this short, Steve, but it has been like three hours. Had a great time. See you on pizza day. Unless you want a ride. Do you want a ride?” Tony gestured to the car that had just pulled up next to them.

            “I’m good with walking. Thanks, though. For everything.” Steve hoped Tony got what he meant. And realized that Steve didn’t need an entire floor on the tower anymore.

            He must have, because Steve could have sworn he saw Tony’s ears go red as he said, “Well, it was just a coupla lights, no big deal,” and got into the car. “Later, Rogers.”

            Steve waved until the car rounded the corner, then turned towards home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWO MORE CHAPTERS :D they will be posted next week and then I *hope* I'll be able to keep to this posting schedule as I continue the series, but we'll see. I am trying to write at least three more stories of this length. You should at least get chapters one and two of the next work on time because those are done as well. THANK YOU FOR READING!


	9. Chapter 9

            The bedrooms were harder than Steve thought.

            It didn’t help that the first bedroom Steve had remotely cared to think about rearranging, let alone painting, was the one in the house he’d just built. Before Steve’s house there’d been the obnoxious tower bedroom (wasn’t that bad, but Tony had gone a little overboard with the war propaganda art), the generic Washington bedroom, wherever he slept during the war (so mostly tents), aaaaand the shared bedroom with Buck before he shipped out. Never much incentive to do anything with those, especially since he hadn’t technically owned any of them. And Steve’s childhood room couldn’t really count when he’d inherited the furniture from a second cousin and had been lucky to be allowed to hang a few things on the walls.

            Another part of the problem was the whole peace and tranquility aspect from the bathrooms. Steve knew some of that had to carry over into the bedrooms, but he also knew that there was a level of coziness necessary, a feeling of almost-but-not-quite-lived-in that he wanted all the guest rooms to have because he wasn’t planning on spending much time in them, but he’d be damned if any part of his house felt empty or unloved.

            The downstairs bedroom was the most important, because that was the one Steve knew (even if he hoped he was wrong) would probably see the most use. Any one of the team had to be able to crash there, for any reason, at any time, and be comfortable.

            Which is how he ended up getting a king-sized adjustable bed.

            Sam texted back it was a great idea. Tony said something about being more likely to sleep in the secret workshop he was setting up in Steve’s basement. Nat called him just to laugh, long and hard into his ear, and then hang up.

            The word ‘warm’ was battering against the insides of Steve’s head much more forcefully than when he’d done the living room, so he went with a deep calming beige for the walls and dark wood furniture and soft lighting only.

            Guest bedroom day was also the day Steve realized it was impossible to have too many blankets.

            He hadn’t not known this before; he’d had plenty of freezing winters, pre- and post-serum, to remind him. Sam had given him something homemade- not by Sam, who ‘didn’t have time to do a whole damned blanket’ and ‘would slap Steve senseless if he expected more than a scarf for Christmas’- but by someone Sam knew from the VA, who ran a successful craft business. Steve had been sleeping with that and a sheet, and sometimes even an open window instead of AC, since Sam had come by to see the kitchen and drop off the blanket.

            But winter was cold. And Steve was not about to not have enough blankets ever again. So, even if he had yet to buy himself a “real” bedspread (that’s what Nat had called them, even though the idea of anything other than an unmade blanket nest seemed to disgust her), Steve was more concerned with the blanket part of the room than anything else. So when he came across one covered in penguins, little cartoon ones on a backdrop of bright blue, some of them standing around looking cute and others sliding around on bits of floating ice- and one of the softest things Steve had ever touched besides- he had to buy it. It was on sale, for fuck’s sake. Apparently penguins were a winter theme and when it was 90 and humid no one wanted a fuzzy blanket.

            No one but Steve.

            Sure, it clashed marvelously with the rest of the room, and yeah, Tony was either going to attempt to steal it or make fun of Steve for it for the rest of forever, but it was a fuzzy penguin blanket. What was Steve supposed to do, not buy it?

            After that he texted Sam asking where exactly the spectacular VA place was, and Sam said he couldn’t remember but was 99 percent sure Steve’s friend from T&R Construction would know how to get there. Then Steve texted ‘why would he know that, you only met the dude once’ and Sam replied, ‘nah, we go way back, just go down the street and ask him.’

            Which is how Steve ended up jogging home, chucking the blanket onto the new guest bed to fall where it wanted, and then heading right back out to T&R Construction.

            The building was big, probably a garage at some point, but functioned mostly as a workshop. Steve stepped past one of the open bay doors and went to knock on the door to the office.

            “Come on in,” Tom’s voice drifted through the glass, so Steve went inside. “Oh, Steve. Need help with a project?” Tom was standing behind a desk, rifling through a stack of papers, but he set them down when Steve came in.

            Steve shook his head. “Not exactly. And there aren’t any problems with the electrical, or anything, I just- Sam Wilson told me you’d know where to find a really nice handmade blanket?”

            To Steve’s surprise, instant recognition dawned on Tom’s face. “Oh. Yeah. That’s your VA friend, right? Met him a couple times. Knows some of my buddies from his meetings. Talking about a yarn thing, like knit or crochet?”

            “This one’s crocheted, I’m pretty sure. If that helps.”

            Tom nodded. “Head over to the Yarn Co-op a few streets south of here. In that real artsy area, you know, with all the homemade jewelry? And tell whoever’s at the desk I sent you, they’ll give you the family discount. Well, not the family discount, pretty sure I could walk in and take something without anyone batting an eye, as if I didn’t already have way too much of that shit in my house, but- you know what I mean. It’s nice stuff, all made by locals, mostly vets. They sell yarn, too, if you’re interested in picking up a hobby.”

            “Thanks. And thanks for the work on the house. I’ll come straight down here if I need help with anything.”

            Tom shrugged. “Looks like you’ve got electric covered with Stark. I can handle any of the other dry stuff.”

            “I’ll pass on the compliment,” Steve said, flashing a smile, and went back out and started south.

            The Yarn Co-op was tucked in the crafty area Tom had described, right between a used bookshop and a place that sold handcrafted pottery. A bell chimed when Steve stepped in. The place was dimly lit except for the front windows; once Steve’s eyes had adjusted, he saw that both the left and right walls were jammed, floor to ceiling, with every type of yarn imaginable. A shelf running down the middle of the narrow shop was packed just as full with what looked like finished products, though that shelf was only five feet high.

            “Welcome to the Yarn Co-op,” a voice trilled from somewhere behind the counter. A second later a person in a knitted tank top and orange glasses popped into view. “I’m Jay. Let me know if you need anything.” Jay immediately disappeared again.

            “Thanks,” Steve said, and edged down one of the aisles.

            Much though he would have loved to take up knitting and surprise the socks offa Sam, Steve had way too much left to do in the house to pick up another hobby. And he had the drawing class to sign up for. The store was overwhelming in a way that was much more familiar to Steve than Target; there had to be thousands of skeins of yarn in there, but none of them was Bluetooth enabled.

            Steve ran his hand over some of the blankets, feeling the knit textures and the softness of the yarn changing under his fingers. They were all thick and warm and beautiful, but Steve was looking for something that gave him the same feeling Sam’s gift or the penguin blanket had- he wanted it to be safe and comfortable, but he also wanted the sight of it to make him happy. The blanket Sam gave him was simple enough, squares sewn together, but each one was crocheted with at least three different colors and the resulting hodgepodge anchored Steve in his bed every time he woke up from a nightmare.

            In the end, Steve found two blankets he loved; one had a real pattern on it and could go in the front of the house, and the other one looked like it was made of a hundred patches in all different sizes and colors.

            Steve mentioned Tom’s family discount when he got back to the counter.

            Jay snorted. “Yeah, Tom’s my uncle. Well, uncle-in-law, but who’s counting. Been married to Uncle Rick for, like, thirty-four years or something.”

            Steve blinked. “Married?”

            “Okay, not married exactly, but as good as,” Jay amended, sliding Steve’s blankets into a paper bag. “Oh, hell. You didn’t know what the R in T&R stood for?”

            Steve brushed off the shock and tried to think of a response that didn’t sound stupid. Or out him. Though Steve was pretty sure Jay wouldn’t give half a shit. “No. I thought people usually used last names for that kind of stuff?”

            Jay shrugged. “Uncle Rick ran the business side until Tom figured it all out. Eventually they made enough to start this place, although I think it’s employee owned.”

            Steve passed Jay his debit card. “Aren’t you the most qualified to know that?”

            Jay laughed. “Nah. I just work here when my mom needs me to. Though I guess you have a point. When she gets back I’m asking about stock options.”

            “Good luck with that.” Steve slid the card back into his wallet and took his bags. “Thanks.”

            “Anytime, man. I’m not one to pass up a casual conversation with Captain America.”

            Steve shook his head as he made for the door. “It’s just Steve.”

            “See you later, then, Steve!”

            Steve didn’t realize there was a spring in his step until he caught sight of a rainbow poster in a shop window. Then he stopped walking to read it. ‘GAY LITERATURE CLUB WEDNESDAY NIGHTS.’ Steve had built his house two blocks from the queerest place he’d seen in… well, ever. He glanced up and down the street. This was still New York, and there was still a chance aliens could swoop down at any time, but his electric guy and his yarn supplier were married.

            Which didn’t mean Steve didn’t have another thing to fight for in this new century. But damn, this was a cause he could get behind.

            Steve laughed. Buck would’ve punched him if he’d said that out loud. “Real smooth, Stevie. Way to be inconspicuous.”

            Steve didn’t need to be inconspicuous here. He was in the twentieth century. In his neighborhood. That so happened to be a little gay.

            Steve smiled the whole way home.

*

            “How’s the party planning?”

            “You’ve called me three times this week. The party isn’t for another five days.”

            “I just wanted to make sure you had enough food.”

            Steve snorted and adjusted one of the framed art pieces he’d picked up wandering through a flea market the day before. It was a vintage-style Iron Man print. “I’m me, Tony. I’ve hardly been here a couple weeks and I already own a second fridge. Which reminds me, were you serious about that basement lab thing?”

            Steve felt him shrug though the phone. “Maybe. Secret lab, weapon stockpile, hidden pot farm. The list goes on. I’ll have a better idea when I get a feel for the space.”

            Steve rolled his eyes and hoped Tony could tell even though it was a regular call. It’d taken a few tries, but Steve finally convinced Tony that audio was fine and every discussion longer than two minutes didn’t require them seeing each other in their underwear, or whatever it was Tony was wearing when he called Steve from the lab at three in the morning. “I’m open to most of your ideas, but you’d better have security to match how illegal they are. And pot, Tony? Really? Isn’t that going to be legal any day now?”

            Tony definitely shrugged again. “We’ve got gay marriage, so maybe. Although marriage equality generally has better press.” A loud crash came through the phone. “Damnit, Clint!”

            Steve grinned as he readjusted the patchwork blanket on the front room sofa. He very much liked the idea of a place to sit without a TV nearby, and the windows’d be as good for drawing as the ones across the hall in his office. Though that would require people to pose for him, which Steve had no idea if they would. “Is everything okay?”

            “Yeah, Clint just fell from the ceiling. Happens once a week. He didn’t fall on anything important this time, so- How many times do I have to tell you, you can’t touch my stuff without asking!”

            Steve heard something about reinforced air vents coming from Clint.

            “Yeah, whatever, I’m working on it. Six projects at a time is about my limit.” Before Clint or Steve could argue, Tony continued, “I’d better go, Rogers. I think he’s going to set something on fire. See you Tuesday.”

            “Love you, too, Tony.” Steve laughed as he hung up to the beginning of a heated argument on fire safety.


	10. Chapter 10

            “How many pizzas did you order?” Clint asked under his breath as he stepped inside.

            “Enough,” Steve assured him. “Enough.”

            “Good. Holy shit, have you tried sock sliding on these floors yet?”

            Steve opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by a low whistle of appreciation from Nat. “This place’s really shaped up since I helped you lay those kitchen tiles.”

            Steve switched from holding the door with his hand to his foot and reached out to return Nat’s surprise hug. “Thanks.”

            When it was apparent no other Avengers were two hours early, Steve nudged the door shut and led them down the hall. “I think I’d better wait for Tony to give the full tour. And you’ve seen some of the rooms already, but- this is where I figure we’ll be spending the most time, if I can drag you guys out of Manhattan.” Steve gestured toward the family room and waited for reactions.

            “You did good, Steven,” Nat said, plopping down on the sofa the same way she had weeks ago. “Really good.”  
            Clint collapsed over her legs and nodded. “I like it. And that’s a nice TV, tell Tony and his projector to go fuck themselves.”

            Steve sighed. “Don’t think he’ll let me off that easy, but I’ll try.”

            Clint grinned up at him. “It’s your house, man.”

            “Yeah. I guess it is.”

            They spent a while shouting at House Hunters before Sam showed up. “I’m not too early, am- did I just hear Clint bitch someone out for being too lazy to paint?”

            “Yep,” Steve said happily, accepting Sam’s box of probably dessert and closing the door behind him. He’d expected Sam to be a little early; he also knew for a fact Tony and anyone he was driving would be a good twenty minutes late. “What’d you bring?”

            “Cupcakes from that snooty place down the street from the tower. Normally I wouldn’t bother with food fads, but these are good. Not sure how Tony hasn’t found out about them yet.” Sam stopped at the door to the sitting room, hummed his approval, and turned to shoot a glance through the glass office doors. “You doing art again yet?”

            “Soon. I wanted to finish this before I started deconstructing cubism, or whatever it is I’ll be doing in art class.”

            “Going for art history instead of studio?”

            Steve shrugged. “Haven’t decided yet. Really anything that gets me back into it is good- No, Nat and Clint, we cannot eat dessert first,” he added at the sight of their faces.

            “Damnit,” Nat hissed, sinking back into the couch.

            “You’re such a mom, Rogers,” Clint said.

            Sam took the spot next to Nat’s feet and asked, “What’s their budget?”

            “Nine hundred thousand,” Nat said around a snort.

            Sam shook his head. “Don’t know why you bother with this crap. The vacation home ones are way better.”

            Nat narrowed her eyes. “Don’t people buying vacation homes have more money to blow than regular rich people?”

            Sam grinned. “Maybe, but usually the location’s so expensive they have to settle for places Steve would actually set foot in. No offense intended, by the way, this place is sweet.”

            “None taken. If they weren’t so impractical I might settle for a yurt.”

            They argued about the merits of yurts until Tony showed up fifteen minutes late with everyone else.

            “Not to brag, but I picked out all the light fixtures. Steve has terrible ta- where’s the projector?”

            “I don’t have one. But the TV is at the back of the house. In the family room.”

            Tony shook his head at the tech-less sitting room and headed back towards the others. Steve greeted Bruce, Pepper, and Thor, and they hung out in the entry for a few minutes chatting about his design choices.

            “Pepper! I need you to help me move this TV! We have to set up Steve’s projector!”

            “No projectors!” Steve tested Clint’s theory and found the floors were excellent for sliding, but he realized he couldn’t slow down without accidentally breaking some of his new house and settled for falling on his ass instead. “No projectors.” He stood and crossed his arms to restore at least some of his dignity.

            “Smooth,” Tony said.

            “It works!” Clint wriggled off of Nat’s legs and started testing his socks on the nearest bit of exposed floor when someone knocked at the door.

            “I’ll get it!” Steve, expecting pizza but not wanting to fall again, was sure to lift his feet up all the way as he jogged back into the entryway.

            It wasn’t pizza.

            It was Bucky.

            He was standing on the porch with his hand still raised from knocking, uncertain expression shutting down in a second and giving way to something closed-off.

            “Hi,” Steve said, suddenly out of breath.

            “Hi,” Bucky said quietly.

            The sound of Tony’s voice from the hall made them both flinch. “I invited him.”

            Steve didn’t want to be rude, so he shouted ‘you WHAT’ at Tony with his eyes for a split second before immediately training his gaze back on Bucky. “You, uh- I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were coming. Come in.”

            Bucky narrowed his eyes a little, considering, then accepted Steve’s offer and stepped into the entryway.

            Tony met Steve’s disbelieving expression with nonchalance. “You left me in charge of the invites. Can’t exactly complain when you didn’t provide instructions.”

            “I’m not complaining,” Steve said, because he didn’t think it was the time to argue with Tony about the importance of open communication at that exact moment. “I’m just surprised. I didn’t expect- I-” Steve could have said a lot of things. He could have said he didn’t expect to see Bucky before the house was done, but that wouldn’t be right. Because he’d wanted to see Bucky before the house was done, even if he hadn’t thought it was going to happen. He could have said he didn’t expect to see Bucky for another few months, at least, because whatever Buck was doing it clearly required more emotional help than a physically nearby Steve could offer him. But Buck was here. Now. In his entryway. “It’s good to see you again.”

            “Scold me later,” Tony said, turning on his heel and leaving them to stare at each other.

            “It’s good to see you, too.” Bucky’s stance was relaxed, but his hands were in his pockets. Dead giveaway he wasn’t comfortable.

            Steve didn’t want anyone to be uncomfortable in his house ever. “I missed you.” At first Steve thought it was the wrong thing to say, because Bucky just looked at him appraisingly and didn’t move a muscle.

            Then he spread his arms and said, “Come here, you jerk,” and Steve was hugging him for the first time in seventy years.

            “I missed you,” Steve repeated. He didn’t know what else to say. ‘Cept maybe ‘I love you’ but he didn’t think either of them was ready for that yet.

            “I missed you, too.” Bucky tightened his arms a little, then stood back, sliding his right arm down to hold Steve’s hand. “You good?”

            “Yeah. I’m- I’m good.” Steve laughed. And sobbed, probably. A little bit of both. He wiped his eyes and smiled. “I’m being an idiot.”

            “No, you’re not.” Bucky reached for Steve’s other hand with his metal one, then hesitated, brow furrowed. “I didn’t have this one before.”

            “Doesn’t matter,” Steve whispered.

            Bucky searched his eyes for a second, found something, then dropped Steve’s hand and started walking through to the family room.

            Steve willed himself to stop fucking crying and reminded himself that now was not the time, and followed Bucky back.

            No one looked surprised.

            “You’re all fucking assholes,” Steve decided. He sat on the chair off to the side and tipped his head back, shut his eyes, feeling too tired in that moment to glare at them. “All of you. You all suck.”

            “Guilty,” Tony said happily.

            Steve did not want to see the look on his face.

            A few minutes later the pizza got there and the doorbell rang, and Tony decided to get it as some gesture of retribution. It was probably mostly his fault, but the team being in on it hadn’t helped. When Steve finally opened his eyes to make sure no one was pulling weapons on his best friend yet, Bucky’s smirk confirmed he’d been a part of the gag, too.

            Steve stood and went to help Tony with the pizza. “I hate you all.” The kitchen wasn’t that far away, but it was far enough for him to have a whispered argument with Tony while the others made small talk. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

            “I was thinking you needed this. And that having the best friend slash former love interest slash recovered super assassin around might make it better.”

            Steve rubbed his eyes and tried not to let the word ‘former’ sting. “No more surprises. Ever again. Next time one of you surprises me I’m breaking your hand.”

            “Party pooper.” Tony flipped open the last pizza box and glanced around. “How are we doing this? Buffet stampede with paper plates, or-”

            Wordlessly, Steve crossed to a cabinet, took out a stack of plates, and thrust them into Tony’s arms.

            “These are nice. Where’d you get them?”

            “Pottery place a few blocks from here.” Steve turned towards the others. “Come eat, you terrible, terrible people.”

            They piled into the kitchen. Steve ignored Tony’s offer of a plate; he wasn’t feeling very hungry anymore. He caught Bucky’s eye over the crowd. Bucky tilted his head back toward the entryway and Steve nodded.

            Once they were both safely shut in the front room, Steve hesitated. There was so much he wanted to say, but he just- Steve couldn’t set the pace here.

            “How are you really doing, Steve?” Bucky was perched on the arm of a chair, eyes searching again.

            Steve sighed and went to sit on the couch. “I’m fine. I mean, I have my own mess of a head to deal with, too, it’s not- I’ve fucking told you out loud I have depression when you weren’t here, I just-”

            “Stevie.” Bucky’s eyes widened, and he held his arms open.

            Steve relented and went to snuggle into the chair with him. They absolutely did not fit, but he was pretty much sitting in Bucky’s lap so it didn’t matter. “I don’t know what to do here. I’m okay, you know, I’m working on it, I built a house, for goodness’s sake, but I- I didn’t want to scare you.”

            “You’d never scare me.” Bucky’s hand went to cradle Steve’s head. His voice was barely audible, super hearing or not. “I was worried I’d scare you.”

            Steve let out a teary laugh. “Yeah, I let you beat me half to death on a falling helicarrier when you were still brainwashed. Don’t think that’s happening anytime soon.” The second Steve realized what he’d said, he flinched. “Shit, Buck, I’m sorry-”

            “It’s alright.” Bucky held him close so Steve couldn’t pull back and apologize properly. “I wouldn’t’ve come back if I was worried you were gonna trigger me.”

            Steve tensed. “I could still trigger you. Pretty sure I hurt you just now.”

            Bucky shrugged. “S’alright. Not like I’m not gonna throw my fair share of punches before I figure all this out.”

            “All this… all this what?”

            “Anything. Anything you want. Seems like you still want to be my friend, though.”

            “Yeah.” Steve pressed his fingers into Bucky’s back and tried not to start sobbing. “Yeah, I do.”

            “Then we’ll figure it out, Steve-o. No problem.”

            “Promise?”

            Bucky leaned back, expression serious, and offered Steve a pinky. “Steven Grant Rogers, I solemnly swear that we will figure this out, whatever it is, because you’re my best friend, and I’m with you ‘till the end of the line.”

            Steve locked pinkies with him and collapsed into Bucky’s chest. “Yeah. Pinky swear. Okay.” They sat like that for a minute before Steve realized he had a kitchen full of people eating his pizza. “I’m supposed to be hosting a party right now.”

            “Yeah.”

            “That was a dirty trick you pulled, you know.”

            “I know.” Bucky rubbed circles into Steve’s back. “But it was the fastest way to show you they all trusted me.”

            Steve laughed. He had a point. Avengers Tower was outfitted with the best security in the world. Steve’s house may have missile proof windows, but it didn’t have a Hulk chamber. And Steve knew for a fact only half of his friends were armed, and then with no more than knives. “You’re an asshole.”

            “Think you told me already, buddy. But I could always use the reminder.”

            Steve laughed again and slid back a bit. “I’ve got to go claim some food before they eat it all.”

            “We don’t have to do this now. I can kick them out. Or come back later.”

            Steve gripped Bucky’s metal shoulder so hard he was afraid he might dent it. “No. You’re staying right here. And so are those assholes. This is my house, and if I want to entertain a bunch of freeloading trainwrecks, I’m gonna.”

            Buck smiled. “This is your house. It’s beautiful.”

            Steve grinned and blushed and just managed not to blurt out ‘I was hoping it’d be our house’ or something equally as stupid. That conversation could wait. Because his house was full of people and even if they’d been rude about it they’d done all this to show, in some twisted way, that they loved him, and Steve wasn’t about to turn them away. “Thanks. I worked real hard on it.” He forced himself to stand and walk towards the door. “If we don’t go now we definitely won’t get any pizza.”

            “Yeah,” Bucky said, “I know.”

            But Steve couldn’t leave things like that. He couldn’t steal this one moment, this promise, without- “You want to stay here tonight?”

            Bucky bit his lip, expression caught between a smirk and a smile the way it always was when he was teasing Steve. “Only if you’ll lend me clean clothes.”

            Steve led the way back to the kitchen feeling ten times lighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Twill be continued in 'Bucky Fixes Steve's House,' serialization starting next week! Again, I have at least four works planned for this series and want to update every week.
> 
> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING! I had a bit of a hard time figuring out where to start with Steve, but this work felt so right I wanted it to be with this one. Your kudos and comments have sustained me through the writing process and are much appreciated.


End file.
